I stand, unsteady on my feet, and am almost glad for the tears filming my vision, so I don’t see my classmates’ reactions

I can’t stop crying.

I’m sitting in the middle of a too-silent classroom, feeling every eye in the room boring into me, and I simply dissolve in a puddle of tears and fears and heartache.

I put my face in my hands and the salty water seeps through cracks between my fingers, till my cheeks, hands, even my forehead are slick and wet.

I can’t breathe.

There’s a hand on my shoulder. Mrs. Abramson.

“Let’s step outside for a minute,” she says quietly. I stand, unsteady on my feet, and am almost glad for the tears filming my vision, so I don’t see my classmates’ reactions.

The classroom door closes behind us and the class erupts; from outside, the chattering sounds like a dozen crows cawing together on our garden wall back in India.

Thinking of our garden — our house — my family — makes the tears flow stronger.

Mrs. Abramson still has a hand on my shoulder.

“Is something wrong, Ashira?” she asks gently.